In the heart of London, Buckingham Palace.
The most glorious court of the Empire was bright and warm in its luxurious drawing-room.
Queen Victoria, now over sixty, sat in an armchair near the window, covered with a soft wool blanket.
She had just dealt with several urgent dispatches from the colonies and was now using her brief rest time to peruse the latest issue of Good Words, brought to her by her lady-in-waiting.
Like other readers, her gaze skipped past the political commentary and essays at the beginning, landing directly on the serialization of The Sign of Four.
The Queen read slowly, her expression focused.
She was not the type of woman to be engrossed in popular novels, but this consulting detective who resided on Baker Street had indeed captured her attention.
Perhaps it was the advocacy for logic and reason in the "deductive method," or perhaps the stories offered her temporary relaxation...
As the plot advanced to a critical point, where Holmes linked a strange pattern on a piece of paper and a few numbers to the Indian colony, the Queen nodded slightly.
She was certainly not unfamiliar with India; it was the brightest jewel in her crown, and the setting of The Sign of Four being connected to it added a degree of personal immersion for her.
However, just as the narrative approached its climax, this issue's serialization abruptly ended.
At the bottom of the page was only a single line of cold lead type: [To be continued, please look forward to the next issue.]
Queen Victoria let out a soft "tsk," closed the magazine, and placed it on her lap, complaining with longing:
"This Frenchman is just too good at cutting things off. He stops every time at the most tantalizing part; it's torture."
The lady-in-waiting smiled in agreement:
"Indeed, Your Majesty. We hear that London readers have both love and hate for it."
Just then, a sixteen-year-old boy walked in with a light step:
"Grandmother! You've finished the new 'Holmes' too, haven't you? I beg you, could you ask the Good Words publishers to hand over the rest of the manuscript? Or perhaps send someone to hurry them up? I truly cannot wait to know who that wooden-legged man is and what those signatures mean!"
Queen Victoria looked at the boy's anxious expression, reached out, and gently stroked his thick blond hair:
"My dear George, I understand how you feel. Curiosity and the impulse to know the result immediately are the privileges of youth. But, my child, waiting is also a virtue. The finer the thing, the more worth it is for us to look forward to with time."
Prince George could only mumble:
"But... we have to wait another half a month... Oh, right, the novel mentioned India. Have you been to India, Your Majesty? I hear there are elephants, tigers, and leopards everywhere!"
Queen Victoria smiled faintly:
"No, George, I have not been to India. But I am still the Empress of India; I rule there through the Viceroy."
Prince George showed a look of yearning:
"I must go see India one day!"
Queen Victoria patted his head:
"You will, my dear George."
The Sign of Four still followed the tradition of serializing first in Good Words and only releasing it in France a month later.
This method of "favoring the other" was once criticized by French critics—but at least in February 1881, no one cared.
Most people didn't even know that the new "Holmes" story had begun serialization.
On the evening of February 25, 1881, the day before Hugo's birthday, the President of the Republic, Jules Grévy, personally went to Rue d'Orsel, Hugo's residence.
He extended congratulations on behalf of the Republican government and presented Hugo with a highly symbolic gift—an exquisite "Sèvres vase."
The "Sèvres Porcelain Factory" belonged to the official French manufactory, and its pottery had historically only been presented to rulers.
Therefore, Jules Grévy said in his address:
"The national factory was originally established to present gifts to monarchs. And today, the Republic presents this vase to a spiritual monarch."
These words were reported throughout the nation by the newspapers the very next day, essentially positioning Hugo as the spiritual leader of the Republic.
On February 26th, Hugo's birthday, large numbers of enthusiastic citizens spontaneously gathered on Rue d'Orsel to present flowers to the balcony outside his window.
The official congratulations from the Paris City Council and delegations from the provinces were deliberately scheduled for "the next day," February 27th.
February 27th, early morning.
Despite the tightly closed windows, Lionel was awakened by a low, continuous roar.
It was a torrent composed of countless footsteps, faint singing, and the din of a massive crowd.
He got up and walked to the window, pulling back a corner of the curtain to look outside.
The street was unusually quiet, contrasting with the distant roar—clearly, the city's population was converging on a single central point.
Around nine in the morning, he took a carriage to a hotel near Rue d'Orsel that he had reserved beforehand.
The hotel's location directly faced the window of Hugo's residence, offering an excellent view.
In a room on the third floor of the hotel, Émile Zola, Alphonse Daudet, Edmond de Goncourt, Maupassant... were already present.
They were standing by the window, looking down with complex expressions.
Zola turned his head when he heard the door open and saw Lionel, greeting him:
"You're here, Lio."
Lionel walked up beside him and looked down.
The scene before him was truly magnificent.
The procession followed the pre-announced route—starting from the Arc de Triomphe, passing through Rue d'Orsel, and finally arriving beneath Hugo's residence window—moving slowly and steadily in tight formations of twenty to thirty people per row.
The crowd resembled a river stretching as far as the eye could see, winding through the streets of Paris.
They were dressed in festive attire, holding flowers, flags, and portraits of Hugo.
Songs occasionally rose up; although the sound was indistinct from this distance, the combined roar held immense energy.
A total of six hundred thousand Parisian citizens, marching in relatively orderly lines, moved past the great writer's window with the solemnity of pilgrims, paying their highest respects to the "great defender of the people."
Flowers were piled up in front of Hugo's residence, quickly forming a colorful, fragrant mountain of blossoms.
Six hundred thousand people spontaneously celebrating a writer's birthday—this was truly an unprecedented event in the history of human civilization.
Lionel's gaze shifted to the window across the street.
The window was open, though the February air in Paris was still biting cold, the aging Hugo was clearly already standing there.
He wore dark clothing, his white hair gently stirring in the wind.
His left and right hands were placed around his thirteen-year-old grandson, Georges, and his twelve-year-old granddaughter, Jeanne.
The old man looked radiant, his face filled with excitement, gratification, and even intoxication.
He had almost continuously stood there since the procession approached the apartment.
He kept bowing, waving, and saluting the vast, sea-like crowd below, accepting this unprecedented reverence.
Lionel said quietly to Zola beside him:
"Mr. Hugo is great, and the people's reverence for him is also sincere and from the heart."
Zola stood with his arms crossed, his brow slightly furrowed, and nodded.
The others turned their heads as well; they already knew that Lionel had refused France's invitation.
And following Lionel's example, almost all the "Naturalist" writers had tacitly skipped the celebration.
(End of Chapter)